Brilliant Idiot's Where God Went Wrong Ch 4
by Brilliant Idiot
Summary: The Rules - Having the misfortune to wake up dead, and failing to will himself into oblivion, our hero might as well sit back for The Rules to the afterlife. The Salmon next to him isn't helping much.


Brilliant Idiot's – Where God Went Wrong. Chapter 4. The Rules 

This continues the saga of our hapless hero, who has had the misfortune to wake up dead. You can get caught up here, or on the Brilliant Idiot website.

It is still a matter of debate whether he is wandering through a) heaven b) hell c) purgatory or d) all of the above. For our hero's part, he would be happy to find a quiet place to just sit for a nice cup of tea, but, as he is about to discover, that is presently impossible, for the lack of unexpired milk.

It's one thing to want to will yourself into oblivion. It's another thing to have it imposed upon you. Gene was beginning to prefer cartoon sun universes to this empty void.

Within the void there was a mist – a wavering mist, with rippling waves of deeper mistiness. It was just the sort of place where one would expect to see... more mistiness... and... a scroll of rules, posted to thin air by a roll of duct tape. Gene reached tenuously for the scroll, only to have it ripple through his hand, wavering in and out of existence.

"I don't believe this."

"Well that's handy then," the half-finished salmon came flooping out of the fog.

To Gene's surprise, he was relieved to see him. "There you are! I thought you'd disappeared."

"No such luck. "

"How come you're not gone along with everything else?"

"Gone where?"

"Wherever everything else went!"

"You won't be able to get rid of me that easily."

"Why not?" Gene insisted, irritation quickly replacing his relief.

"I would have to vanish into nothingness. You just said, you don't believe in nothing. Which means you believe in something."

OOOkaaaaay. When in doubt, switch angles of attack. "Who _are_ you, anyway!"

"I'm the something you don't believe in."

"I doubt that."

"I know. Thank God."

Fortunately, it was proving difficult to get uninterrupted conversations in this place. To Gene's relief, a blazing fan fare of trumpets drown out any hope of further debate.

"Oh, God," Gene groaned. "I can't look." So he decided not to. Besides, so far, there was a bad precedent for him with checking things out.

"You can't get out of this," warned the Salmon. "Might as well wait quietly." There was resignation in the Salmon's voice that provided a subtle warning to Gene's subconscious. It did nothing to make him feel more comfortable.

And then there was that voice again - the voice from the intercom. The Announcer from Hell. "Congratulations on your death," she echoed with distinct lack of sincerity. "Please keep inside your personal version of reality at all times."

However, she, too, succumbed to the swell of trumpets.

Amidst the fanfare emerged a more formal, sturdier voice. This voice was not using an intercom. It felt nearby. It seemed ubiquitous, like that voice in your head that knows everything you've been up to. Gene carefully avoided peering too intently through the fog, least he to discover, and come face to face with, the source of The Voice.

It spoke. It boomed. As it boomed, the trumpets respectfully fell silent. The Voice was intent on addressing him, personally. Each word etched itself into Gene's soul. It said,

"KEEP OFF THE GRASS."

Gene fumbled for the Salmon, grasping him around the neck tightly as a child would squeeze Teddy Bear during a thunder storm.

"Okay," Gene babbled, his voice wheedling thinly through the fog.

"No problem," the Salmon garbled as best he could.

Apparently this was insufficient. The Voice boomed again.

"ANNND... WIPE YOUR FEET."

Gene found himself nodding vigorously. "I can do that."

"No problem," agreed the Salmon. "Especially for those of us keeping off the grass."

"BUT I'LL BET," insisted The Voice, (it didn't sound quite so loud this time), "YOU WON'T LIKE THIS THIRD RULE."

Gene and the Salmon looked at one another, shrugging, nodding, wriggling, shifting back and forth.

"Oh, I'm sure whatever it is will be fine," Gene prattle.

The Voice was insistent. "YOU SAY THAT NOW," it warned. "BUT ONCE YOU HEAR IT, I'M PRETTY SURE YOU'LL BE UPSET."

"No, honestly," Gene entreated.

The Salmon back him up. "Yes, really. We'd like to hear it."

'WELL, I'M POSITIVE YOUR FISH WON'T LIKE THIS ONE."

"Salmon!" mumbled the Salmon.

Gene glared at the fish. The fish shut up. Gene glared at the fog. It was next. "Well, then," Gene enunciated, ever so politely, "let's hear it and then you'll know for sure how we're likely to react."

"OKAY. BUT I WARNED YOU."

Gene was just about to loosen his grip on the Salmon when the bombardment from The Voice thundered over them. He nearly toppled backward.

"RULE NUMBER 3," it blasted. "NO PETS ALOUD."

Gene and the Salmon glanced at one another. Gene started to look around, a little more curious now about what exactly was behind all that mist. But the Salmon was wriggling free from Gene's grip, muttering, "No _pets? No pets? _What do they mean by _no_ _pets?"_

Gene quickly appealed to his reason. "I'm not sure that the rule would apply to anything we might also eat."

"Thanks. That's reassuring."

The Voice boomed. "I TOLD YOU, YOU WOULDN'T LIKE IT."

"No really, it's fine." Gene jabbered.

"He's really just this feral human I found in the park. I'm just showing him to a nice hot cup of tea."

The Voice penetrated the mist very, very clearly this time. "WE'LL GET TO THAT TEA THING IN A MINUTE."

Gene was starting to seriously think of leaving – but so far, the only alternative location was a meadow of cranky grass, and he'd just promised to stay off that.

The Voice continued, apparently unstoppable. "RULE NUMBER 4." It continued. "Occupancy of this space by anyone other than 'us' is strictly forbidden."

OK. Now Gene was very ready to leave. "'Us'?" he observed, flatly.

The Salmon whispered carefully back. "As oppsed to...?"

"... them?"

"Or maybe he means 'us' as in 'the people in this space'?"

Gene tried that one on for size. "Occupancy of this space by anyone other than the people in this space is strictly forbidden."

Ooookayyy.

"Should be do-able," vouched the Salmon.

"Got any more like that one?" Gene asked the fog.

Dead silence.

Deafening silence.

Gene's ears and eyes were inundated with white nothingness. The emptiness virtually stung his eyes. They started watering. His ears would have, if they could have.

Then a great sigh washed through the universe, like the residual whisper of the Big Bang.

"I COULD THINK SOME MORE RULES UP FOR YOU, IF YOU LIKE."

"Oh, no, really."

"Don't trouble yourself."

"We've got plenty to work on, what with that grass thing."

"And that space occupancy detail,"

"Quite a poser that one."

"Should employ philosophers for millennia."

"NO –"insisted The Voice. "REALLY. IT'S THE LEAST I CAN DO."

The Salmon wacked Gene with his tale. "Thanks a lot."

Another fanfare of trumpets blazed away all opportunity for a clever retort from Gene – which was good, since he wasn't likely to think of one for hours anyway. As brass blared, a super-sized version of a scroll emerged out of the mist. It was a duplicate of the parchment Gene had seen wavering in the mist earlier, only, apparently, this was the larger, extended play version. Presumably this change in dimensions could be accredited to Gene. The roll was unfurling itself, displaying before them twenty-four rules, unmistakably emblazoned upon the scroll in large, clear, twenty foot high script for all to see.

The Salmon wriggled up to the fine print at the bottom of the list.

"Oh... bother..."

Gene mumbled. "Sorry about that," but the Salmon gave no indication of hearing him.

"BEFORE I LEAVE THIS IN YOUR CAPABLE HANDS," The Voice warned.

"Oh, bother. Here it comes. "

"I THINK WE SHOULD GO OVER IT TOGETHER. ESPECIALLY –"

Gene took in a deep breath.

"- RULE NUMBER 25."

Gene would have tossed himself on the ground in a fit, except for the fact that the ground seemed to be an extremely long way away, and this whole ordeal would be over before he actually hit bottom.

"RULE NUMBER 25 – "continued the voice, apparently unable, or more likely, uninterested, in reading his mind, "- IS REALLY MORE OF A SUGGESTION."

Gene puzzled. His mind strayed back to the ancient mountains of Earth and how that would have gone over. 'Here, My Son. Take these back to your people. These are the Ten Suggestions.' Could explain a lot.

'NOW THAT YOU'RE HERE," The Voice urged. "WHATEVER YOU DO," it pressed. "_DON'T LOOK DOWN._"

Of course, Gene did what anyone would do. He immediately looked down. Ohhhhhh. That was a mistake. There was fog, mist and more fog extending indefinitely beneath his floating feet. It was one thing to plan on tossing yourself into the abyss. It was another to stare into it. He immediately looked up.

"SEE WHAT I MEAN? THAT WILL JUST MAKE THINGS WORSE."

Gene nodded. "I definitely see your point."

"AS LONG AS YOU OBSERVE THIS RULE. YOU'LL BE FINE."

Gene nodded vigorously, catching himself glancing down again. 'No, I'll stare at the Rules. Rule number 25... Don't look down. Don't look down.' "Got it."

"AND NO STORIES ABOUT HOW YOU DIED."

"Well that would be refreshing," babbled the Salmon.

'AND EFFICIENT."

"Eh?"

"WELL HOW DO YOU EXPECT US TO GET ANYTHING DONE UP HERE IF EVERYONE KEEPS ON GOING OVER THE SAME STUFF WE'VE ALREADY DONE, OVER AND OVER AND OVER. Acchhhhhh! BAD ENOUGH DEALING WITH THE REPETATIVENESS OF PARALLEL UNIVERSES."

"My head hurts just thinking about it." sympathized the Salmon, glancing nervously up at Gene, who was still trying very hard not to look down in the Salmon's direction. Instead, Gene kept his gaze steady on the scroll. Wayyyyyyy at the top he thought he could make out Rule Number Six. And, if what he could discern was correct, he wasn't so sure he was going to like reading this list.

"What's this about Rule Number Six?" he protested.

"ABOUT THE WRITERS, ARTISTS, DANCERS AND MUSICIANS?"

"Pardon me, but, if I read this right, I've spent a lifetime being told to buzz off"

The Salmon nudged him and whispered, "I'm sure they'll take you anyway."

"Who says I _want_ them to now?"

"WE RE CONSIDERING YOU BECAUSE OF YOUR COSMOLOGICAL DISCOVERIES CONCERING THE PLANET JUPITER."

"Well, thank heaven for my bizarre collection of restaurant napkins," Gene folded his arms in sarcasm.

"THE RECOMMENDATION FROM THE MANTA RAY IS HELPING ALSO."

Gene poked the Salmon with his bare toes and quietly muttered, "Are you sure there's no way out of his place?"

"That would presuppose you know _where_ you are trying to get out _of_."

"Well, I could tell you where I want to go _to_."

"No, wait. Let me guess –

"Anywhere that's _not here_."

"How did I know?" The Salmon's voice trailed.

"But, I'd settle for somewhere with a nice hot cup of tea."

"Well, you're in luck. Check out Rules Nine, Ten and Eleven."

Gene carefully scanned the billboard before them. Somewhere, about a mile up, it advertised perhaps one of the most essential rules for happiness, here or elsewhere. "Rule Number Nine," he read slowly. "Tea is the only drink consumed here by 'us'."

"YOU DON'T CONSUME THAT _OTHER_ DRINK, DO YOU?"

"No. No, no, no." Gene edged closer to the Salmon and muttered out of the corner of his mouth, "well, maybe the occasional Coffee Crisp bar."

"Well, you might want to drop that little habit."

"Why?"

"Keep reading," nudged the fish.

And Gene did. "Hmmm...." Apparently, according to Rule Number Nine, Coffee drinkers were in the _Wrong Place_.

"I think that's mostly because of Rule Number Ten," said the Salmon.

'Rule number ten ... " Gene peered through the fog.

The Salmon managed to discern the rest. "...milk goes in the tea cup first – then the tea."

'Well, yah, of course."

"Then there's hope for you yet," encouraged the Salmon.

"RULE NUMBER ELEVEN," The Voice Announced. "ALWAYS BE SURE YOU HAVE PLENTY OF MILK ON HAND."

"Eh? Enough is enough, Guys! I've been lucky to keep one _shoe_ here. How am I supposed to – "

"Then hang on to that duct tape." The Salmon dismissed him with a wave of his tale. The fish was busy speculating over the list. "Look," he encouraged, "I'm sure Rule Number Twelve will pose no problem for you."

"Rule number twelve. No impersonations?" Gene grumbled. "Thanks a lot. I happen to do great imitations of the royal family."

"Yes... well... about those...."

"Wait a minute!" Gene's eyes were becoming squinty with suspicion. Slowly, he revealed his speculations to his companion. "If I look like I am following that rule, how do they know I'm not just impersonating someone who isn't doing impersonations?"

"Like he said, it's a good thing about that recommendation from the Manta Ray."

"RULE NUMBER THIRTEEN."

"Ooookayyyy...." said Gene, glad to be interrupted. "What is it?"

"NO SAYING THE WORD..."

"...?"

"...?"

"...annnnnnd?"

"....ANNNNND?"

"The word!" Gene shouted. "No saying the word – WHAT?!"

"NO – THAT'S NOT IT."

"Not what?!"

"EXACTLY."

"What's the word?!"

"NO – IT'S NOT."

"What – it's not?!"

"NO."

"No?"

"YES."

"Okkayyyy.... Got it."

"GOOD, BECAUSE I WAS BEGINNING TO WONDER WHETHER OR NOT YOU'RE VIOLATING RULE NUMBER TWENTY."

Gene was too exhausted to discuss it.

'BUT WE'LL GET TO THAT IN A MINUT. BUT FIRST, YOU'RE DANGEROUSLY CLOSE TO VIOLATING THIS NEXT RULE."

"Rule Number Fifteen,"read the Salmon with some relief. "Don't try to be anybody special up here. We are all special in our own way."

"EXACTLY."

"Well," suggested the Salmon, "that should help us with Rule Number Sixteen." He nudged Gene out of his own personal fog. "Look at this."

"If you're happy," Gene stumbled over each word, "keep it to yourself."

"THANK YOU VERY MUCH."

Gene sighed deeply. "I'm starting to think Rule Sixteen will pose no problem."

"Oh, we almost forgot Rule Number Fourteen."

"Fourteen?" Gene peered up at the teeny weeny print, several stories above them. "Can you read that?"

"As far as I can make out," the Salmon squinted with his one eye. "It says...."

"...write...."

"... le g i b l y..."

"Ooookayyyy."

"That kind of goes with Rule Number Nineteen."

"Spell things properly for heaven's sakes and we'll all get along just fine." Gene frowned slightly. "You know, this could be written by my Aunt Mabel." The Salmon whipped a startled glare at him, but Gene didn't notice. "Look – see. Rule Number Eighteen. 'Do everything on your To Do List –"

"- and no shoving it off on other people."

"There, see. _That's _Aunt Mabel to a 'T'."

"No. We covered the tea thing. I'm quite sure she's not involved in this."

"But – hey. Look at Twenty. This is her alright. 'Cut Out the Jokes'."

"Well, Mabel or not, someone's left you this little Post It next to that Rule."

A yellow square of paper, about the size of a soccer field, floated ominously down toward them. Gradually, Gene could make out the writing on it, as it fluttered slowly toward his head.

"Rule Twenty especially means _you_ This is the afterlife. We do not 'ha ha' here."

Gene scurried aside as the Post It fluttered past. It continued to waft downward, delivering its message for all to see in perpetuity.

Forgetting the recommendation of Rule Twenty-five, Gene watched the message float into its perpetual journey below. The Salmon thought he could hear Gene muttering, "... wait until I find her..."

In a fit of wisdom, the Salmon quickly drew Gene's attention upward again. "Hey, missed one. You've got Rule Number Seventeen nailed."

Whoa. Gene quickly looked up. "Let's see here."

"DON'T USE HAIR SLICKUM."

Gene's face screwed up. Rolling his eyes he passed that one off to the Salmon. "I think that one's for you.

"Thanks a lot for rubbing that in. I think you've forgotten Rule Twenty already."

"Rule Number Twenty-one. Whatever you're inclined to do – stop it!"

"I think that's why I'm here in the first place," Gene quipped.

"Why?"

"Cause I stopped doing _everything_ I was inclined to do."

"Definitely you need to watch Rule Twenty, Buddy." But on second thought, the Salmon needled, "- or not."

"Then _you _might want to watch out for Rule Number Twenty-two." Gene was grinning broadly now.

The Salmon got the message. "Rule Number Twenty-two. Don't try to get revenge on anybody here -"

"- They're already dead. Get over it." Gene was grinning at the Salmon. "Do you think I can keep that one?"

"About as well as you can follow Rule Twenty-three."

"RULE NUMBER TWENTY THREE-" chastized The Voice. "NO SANDALS -"

"Well that's no problem," Gene conceded, wriggling his shoeless toes.

"- OR BARE FEET!"

"Oh." It occurred to Gene that, given this rule, using Shoe Theory to get around was going to pose a bit of a problem.

"AND FINALLY – "The Voice breathed, creating a solar gust strong enough to reset the placement of the galaxies. "THE LAST RULE."

That fanfare of trumpets blasted again. Gene looked around the fog, dissecting every variance in its density for glimmerings, clues as to what lay beyond it.

"... where the heck is that coming from?"

The Salmon sighed. "... you'd think they'd learn another tune."

"RULE NUMBER TWENTY – FOUR. ARE YOU READY FOR IT?"

"As I'll ever be," Gene groaned.

'THIS IS THE LAST AND FINAL RULE. IT IS ESSENTIAL FOR YOU TO OBSERVE THIS AND ALL THE TWENTY-THREE OTHERS IN ORDER TO STAY."

"You mean I can go?"

"Not likely – "groaned the Salmon.

"But he said..."

RULE NUMBER TWENTY-FOUR – "It blasted, almost knocking Gene's other shoe off. "WEAR – MATCHING – SOCKS."

Gene's toes felt very naked now, as they wriggled naked in the solar wind.

"That's it?" asked the Salmon, with a little more lightness in his voice.

"THAT'S THE LOT."

"No hidden clauses on having pre-read policy agreements?"

'NOT ONE."

Gene was covering up his bare toes with his shod ones. The Salmon was peering over the fine print nestled into the bottom of the scroll. "What's all this about leaving the results of Gene's Entrance Exams, in the Blue Box –"

"YES, AND HE NEEDS TO BE PREPARED TO ANSWER – _THE SKILL TESTING QUESTION._"

"Blue Box?' puzzled Gene.

But the Salmon was more concerned about finer legal points. "Surely that last point is void where prohibited by law."

"YOU'RE ALL THE SAME, AREN'T YOU. ALWAYS DEBATING THE SEMANTICS."

"Well, of course. You folks here may have invented the Universe, but Earthlings invented the legal argument."

"I HAVE OTHER THINGS TO DO." The voice sighed. Dismissively, it added, "IF YOU'RE HERE TO DELIVER PIZZA, THAT ENTRANCE IS AROUND THE BACK." The Voice trailed into a thin mistiness and was gone.

"What about Duct Tape?" Gene pleaded.

"Oh, you can get that at the supplies department once all your paper work is in order."

". and the Blue Box... ?"

But the Salmon was more concerned about the bare toes exposed next to him. One naked foot. One sock and shoe with toes wrapped properly inside. This was going to pose a problem.

Gene glanced down and glimpsed the Salmon studying his feet. "I wouldn't worry about that," he smiled mischievously. "As you can see, my socks are still matched."

"Good one. Now I'd like to see you manage the keyboard test."

".... the keyboard test...?"

"Just kidding. Don't worry about it."


End file.
